


Fiend and Fell

by CaktusGeuse (CaktusJuice)



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Demonic Possession, Demons, Ghost Hunter!Connor, M/M, Priest Kink, haunted au, retired priest!Hank
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 15:13:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16789453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaktusJuice/pseuds/CaktusGeuse
Summary: Connor Blake is being haunted by a demon who calls itself Amanda. He dedicates his life to hunting demons but has never been able to get rid of his own. That is until he meets Hank, a retired priest who started researching the occult after a mysterious and personal incident.





	1. Help Wanted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> This AU Prompt was given by Tiny--Queen on Tumblr and used with her permission.

Beneath the rubber of the tires came the crunching of the gravel drive when Connor pulled into it and parked his car. Google maps had not offered a preview of the location or what it looked like, which he thought strange on its own. He had almost thought about aborting the plan all together, maybe it was just some con act. The guy sounded legit over the phone though and Connor had decided to go through with it. In any case he wasn’t sure what he had been expecting to find, but it certainly hadn’t been this.

A rundown church, a small chapel, those were things that had made sense. No, what stood there was an old rickety house, the windows were boarded up and the gutters had seen better days, some plies of the siding were just barely hanging on. The porch was of some concern. He wasn’t sure if it would really hold him upon stepping on it. It looked rotted almost. And the truth was that if he had not spent the last three hours traveling from Detroit to Grand Rapids with the smell of rotting meat in the car the entire time, then he would not have ever considered stepping out of the car in the first place.

Nevertheless he did, drawing his seat belt back and opening the car door without ever taking his eyes off the house. He approached, snow crunching beneath his boots and then the creaking of the untrustworthy stairs of the house. He made his way up the porch as quickly and lightly as possible only to find that the body of said porch was not much sturdier. This was when he realized that the door was in just as bad a shape as the rest of the place, and it looked like it would fall off it’s hinges at any time.

He knocked on the frame instead.

Father Anderson had been a young preacher when he had started out, ordained after marriage and had aided and lead several exorcisms and retired early due to personal reasons. At least that’s what the review had said, of course all of that could have been a huge lie, in which case Connor had wasted three hours of gas for absolutely no reason. What could he say, he was desperate to try anything at this point.

He was beginning to think no one was going to answer the door when suddenly it was thrown open and a man with a beard poked his head out, an accusatory look on his face. It seemed Connor’s night was not yet free of putrid smells because a wafting aroma of booze and sweat came pouring out of the house. Father Anderson seemed to catch Connor’s rotting scent as well because his hand had moved up to cup over his nose.

“Holy shit, Kid. You got rotting steak in your pockets or somethin’?”

“Are you Father Anderson?” Connor asked, looking the man up and down. This man hardly looked like a priest, or even a retired priest. His shirt was stained with what Connor could only assume was alcohol and who knew when the last time this guy used a comb was. If he were to be brutally honest the unkempt beard wasn’t doing much for the man either.

“Yeah,” the man said, brow crinkling. “What’s it to yah?”

“I…I’m Connor, we talked over the phone briefly. I asked if you were experienced in exorcisms and cleansings and you told me yes. I’ve come to get help.”

“Fuck,” Father Anderson choked, looking the other up and down. “Connor? Jesus H. Christ, I didn’t mean rush out here and bang on my door in the fuck all hours of the night.”

“I need help,” Connor tried again.

“You need somethin’, that’s for sure. But I can’t get it for you. Where did you say you were coming from?”

“Detroit.”

“Fuuuuck,” there was an obvious exasperation to be found. “I don’t know, Kid. Just…find a hotel or something to set in for the night. Get a shower cause you smell like shit, and go home.”

There was an irony to be seen in the statement of the way Connor smelled. Pot calling the kettle black. Connor would have pointed this out perhaps if he weren’t in such a desperate state.

As Father Anderson stepped back to close the door Connor gave a screeching sound, not entirely unlike an animal in pain as his hand shot out to stop from being turned away. He rested it firmly on the door so it could not be slammed on him.

“Please! Please! I need help, I’ve been being tormented by a demon and I don’t know how to get rid of it. I need help.”

He kept repeating this, hoping to drive some point home, hoping to gain some sympathy from the man. Anderson only sighed, his hand moving to pinch the bridge of his nose. He shook his head and sighed with no small amount of irritation.

“Listen, everyone thinks they have demons. Most of the time it’s just your mind playing tricks on you, a little depression. A hot shower and good therapist are the best things for you. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you kid… Night.”

This time when Connor blocked the door there was enough force to shove it back and open a ways. The man behind it curled his lips and furrowed his brow. It was a look that met somewhere between anger and surprise. He aimed this at Connor, as though to dare him to try something like that again. Connor only huffed, hand firm to keep the door in it’s spot and he looked up to the man with a little more detest now.

“I. Need. Help.”

“What you need to do is get the fuck off my porch a-” the words fell short.

Connor had unzipped his coat with one hand, pulling up his sweater and the top he wore beneath it. His skin prickled in gooseflesh as the cold November air rushed over it. But what caught the eye were the long thick gashes in Connor’s side. They were an inch deep each at the very least and they looked to be festering, discolored and swollen. The split skin at the edges of them curled back in a way the seemed unnatural.

“Fuck,” the priest choked. “When did…”

Connor breathed hard, locking eyes with him.

“I got them in the car on the way here. I almost veered off the highway.”

The man stood, staring at them with unease and awe combined. He nodded his head after a moment and stepped back into his house, pulling the door wider as though to make room.

“Okay, okay, Kid. You win. Get in here before you let all the heat out.”

Connor was - to say the least - surprised that this place even had heat.

He stepped in, hoping to find something, anything to help him now.


	2. A Grain of Salt

“Watch the salt there, don’t shift it out of place.”

Connor had looked down to see a line of salt behind the door, poured high on the carpet. He peaked his head in to follow the trail only to find it lined the perimeter of the living room, and likely the entire house. He breathed nervously and stepped forward over the salt so not to break the ‘circle’, and into the house. The floor sunk at his feet and he stumbled, a feeling as though the ground was pulled out from under him, what was meant to be a light shutting of the door ended up as a fumbled slam, causing Father Anderson to look back at him.

“Uh, right. Watch the floor there. The wood in that spot is rotted.”

Connor bit his tongue, refraining from barking that it would have been nice to know before he had stepped in that exact spot. He shakily placed his foot on the sturdier part of the ground and made a quick note of the energy in the area. His conclusion had him frozen with perplex for a brief moment. The air was heavy with some feeling of sorrow, a dark cloud hanging over the house, and yet he felt the most relaxed he had in weeks.

Whatever was latched on to him had let go the moment he had stepped over the salt and into the den of the old house. The smell of rotting had all but disappeared, replaced only with the smell of booze and dirty clothes. He was forced to admit that this was an improvement.

Connor’s hands wrung with uncertainty while he looked around. He wondered just how much money it cost Father Anderson to cover the entire outline of his house in a fair pile of salt. He felt as though just hearing the number of dollars would make his stomach knot. As such, he decided not to inquire about it. Instead he looked at the walls and the ceiling, and the coffee table in front of the couch, and the rundown entertainment center that held an old monster of a television that actually had bunny ear antennae. What he discovered, and to his shock, not a speck of dust lay on a single item and this he found more perplexing than the aura that hung like a veil over all and everything.

“Take a seat on the couch,” Father Anderson stated, returning with a rag and witch hazel in one hand an fancy glass bottle full of clear liquid with no label.

Connor was rather embarrassed to admit that with all the thoughts in his mind he had not even noticed that the former priest had left the room. He opened his mouth to say something but stopped when Father Anderson placed the unlabeled bottle on the coffee table and used his now free hand to push at something on the couch cushions.

“Move, Sumo. C'mon boy. Make room for the guest.”

It took a moment but after that time a large dog stood on the couch, stretching with its butt high in the air. It yawned, all of its monstrous teeth bared and then licked its lips before jumping down and moving to saunter around the couch to look at Connor. It was then that Connor got a good look at the beast and could classify it as a St.Bernard. He found this both fitting (due to the previous occupation of its owner) and ironic (due to the current nature of its owner).

The large beast stared at him dozily and Connor raised his hand in an awkward wave, though he wasn’t entirely sure why he had done it. This seemed to sate the bumbling monster and it lapped at its chops pleasantly before sauntering off into the nearby kitchen, which could be seen clearly from where Connor stood. It seemed the animal had decided - in its post waking moments - that it was time to eat.

In Connor’s opinion the large thing didn’t need anymore food.

“Kid, sit on the couch,” Father Anderson instructed again, and Connor who had all but forgotten the instruction, stood dumbly for a moment - apology more than prominent in his eyes - and he rounded the side of the couch to take the place where the dog had been previously. The seat was still very warm.

“Lift your shirt for me, let’s see if we can’t get those scratches cleaned up. Don’t want them to contract necrosis.”

It was said so simply, like saying 'don’t want to catch a cold’. Nevertheless Connor shucked his coat behind him and then peeled his hoodie off. With his undershirt then lifted Anderson was able to work on cleaning it, though not before he gave a hiss of disgust.

“Well,” he said, taking the rag he’d brought in and dampening it with witch hazel. “It still smells fuckin’ awful, but not like it did when you were out there.”

Connor hissed when the wounds were touched, eyes scrunching and fingers curling into the fabric of his lifted shirt. Father Anderson patted around as gently as possible, clearly trying not to hurt Connor anymore than need be.

“Did you bleed an awful lot?”

“No,” Connor said at almost a whisper, watching as the wounds were dampened with the disinfectant one at a time. “I felt it dig into my ribs, swerved for about thirty seconds when it happened. When I pulled over to check what had caused the pain it already looked like this, like I’d had it for weeks and hadn’t treated it, but I swear to you it only just happened.”

“No blood then, instant festering. Not sure if I would consider that lucky or not.”

“Father Anderson,”

“Hank,” he corrected.

“Hank,” Connor echoed, rolling the name on his tongue for size. “Is there any particular reason that I don’t feel her - um - IT with me anymore?”

For a moment there was no answer, Hank adjusted the rag in his hand till he found a dry spot and he took the other bottle, the unmarked one, and used it to dampen the cloth.

“What’s that?” Connor inquired.

“Holy water,” Hank said with an absence while he used it to clean the scratches. Connor had to admit, it did feel heavenly. The burning sensation had subsided upon the touch of it and he relaxed, feeling his shoulder blades meet with the back of the couch.

“I clean my house with this stuff,” he began to speak again, pouring a little more into the rag and resuming his task. “Between mopping my floors and cleaning my counters with this stuff, and the salt ring - as uncircular as it is - nothing I don’t want to pass through can get in.”

That would explain the shockingly clean insides of the house. Connor took another glance around, this new information offering him insight that seemed to fill in a few blanks.

“So, am I cured?”

“Tch, fuck no,” Hank half laughed, though there was no tone of good humor behind it. “You’re just safe in here. As long as you’re inside this house nothing can hurt you. Nothing can get in here and nothing can get in you.”

Connor’s jaw tightened. It wasn’t as though he could stay in here forever. What solution was this? This was hardly the deal. He had no time to speak these feelings as Hank had finished his aiding and lifted up to stretch.

“Alright, that should do it. So, Connor,” he prompted. “Let’s get into it. Tell me a bit about yourself.”


End file.
